


The Music Plays

by Hells_Writer



Category: Sherlock - Fandom, Sherlock BBC, bbc - Fandom
Genre: Late Nights, M/M, Music, violin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-25
Updated: 2017-11-25
Packaged: 2019-02-06 15:21:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12820380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hells_Writer/pseuds/Hells_Writer
Summary: Sherlock doesn't get it. He knows every emotion and its outcome. So why can't he get this.





	The Music Plays

It was a note. A single note rang out through the flat. Followed by another and yet surprisingly another. This was not uncommon of course knowing the nature of the player. But recently for the past few weeks the notes had a pattern that was repeated. It had long notes with beautiful sound but dreadful pauses. One would say another player was needed, a duet perhaps. Of course that duet met every chance there was but that did not stop the player from playing other melodies. Speaking of melodies that's not always what the player played, other times it would be bass lines, sometimes counter melodies. But this player played at night, the middle of the night to round the time. The night seemed to be a perfect time, to him. To others not so much. 

A man he visited the flat time to time. He had a home of his own of course but when the day had drug so much out of him sometimes a spare couch he used. His house was quite big but the apartment that had to be built again seemed more fit. So much had happened to the flat, especially involving him, he just felt like sometimes it was a good place to crash. The flat came with certain aspects that he could normally tolerate but sometimes they just intrigued him. For example random ramblings was normal, knifes on the mantel, normal, violin playing, normal. But here's where the violin playing comes into play. This intrigued him, not because of the playing, not because of how it was being played, but because of when. He never understood why the man would wait until such odd hours, of course the man was a junkie and what could you really expect. This man was not an ordinary junkie though which I suppose is why it kept the other intrigued so much about the playing. 

A normal junkie is well a normal junkie, but this junkie, he had a schedule, his brain had roadmaps of every thing to happen in this world. Well almost everything, he had a roadmap of everything he could predict, figure out, and remember. His brain was complex, few understood it's entirety. This brain inside this man, a mere mortal capable of un-imaginary things. Able to solve almost anything a normal human who's in way over his head, with ease. It seemed that this one junkie in the entirety of Britain interested this one man. This one man with nothing special except that he helped the other. He had knowledge that contributed, he had an attitude that made things easy, he was able to be called a best friend by the greatest detective known to man. 

Sometimes he didn't just want to be the best friend to the greatest detective known to man. This man had spent considerable time with the other. I mean how could you not if you're always solving cases. This man practically lived in the flat with the other. He was either constantly typing or running. When you work with this man you're always on your toes, never a dull day. But all these days filled with excitement and uncontrollable irregularity he began to have this feeling. This strange feeling in the pit of his chest. This man brought it upon him. This strange, borderline insane, complex man. The man who had a child's bed put into the flat for late nights. The man who had treated his daughter so well and not dismissed her from his brain. The man who treaded lightly on difficult subjects to avoid difficulties. The man who admitted to killing someone he loved although the other would never blame him after. 

The greatest detective know to man was giving a simple man the feelings he long desired. The feelings he never thought he'd feel again. We've spent considerable time talking about the simple man though. Let's talk about what the simple man made the other feel. The detective felt what he felt towards everyone. But with this man he felt something. Something that wasn't an acknowledgement of existence, something that wasn't a displeasure, something more, something with an impact. He didn't know what this was, he thought he was going insane because for a time in his life he couldn't predict what this feeling would make him do. This feeling drove him nuts. So nuts that instead of peaceful pieces being played in the middle of the night, they were intense. Long pieces of fierce, rageful emotion. They had short staccato notes. Trills of odd notes, eighth notes that sounded like the world was on a ledge about to fall. In fact that's what his pieces sounded like now. Fire, apocalyptic, insanity, the world was confused, scared, and worried. It was the emotion he didn't know how to describe. 

For what seemed like a month this all continued. The insane pieces continued but they got more intense, more, and more, and more. Until one day it snapped. Not the feeling, not the piece, the string. The no's in his voice were panicky. Things were being thrown until he was stopped. 

"Sherlock?" "No, no, no, no I can't find the replacements." He watched the man as he muttered, searching every inch. "Sherlock?" "John, John yes John! Where are they?" "Where's what Sherlock?" "The strings John! The strings!" The last words came out strangled. Sherlock Holmes, the man that was intelligent but blocked by emotion, finally for once let it all out. He didn't understand this feeling he was frustrated, he stabbed the mantel, shot the wall, paced around. John just didn't understand, these actions were usually separate, never all at once, Sherlock looked distressed. 

The greatest detective was distressed and the simple man had no idea what to do about it. The man tore the desperate away from his searching and looked at him. "Sherlock what is wrong with you?" "I don't know John!" He looked at the man. This man knew every feeling, every reaction, but he couldn't explain his own. "There's this feeling John. You caused it what did you do to me?!" The lanky man began shaking him. The short, confused man, grew frustrated. "Sherlock I have done nothing to you! Maybe you're finally thinking of someone besides yourself!" Sherlock stopped, his eyes began to move as he stayed still. He was searching for an answer, trying to process every outcome. He then approached John, his eyes scanned the others face. "Sherlock what are you doing?" "Shut up." He smirked, it was that one look on his face that he got, the one he got when he figured everything out. "Say it John." "Sherlock I don't understa-" Sherlock knew this would be the only chance he'd get, so in a quick motion, he kissed John with every emotion he'd experienced that month. 

When he pulled away the detective and the partner discussed. The watched the tele. They found Sherlock his violin string. They sat together and John tried to discuss. "John you know the answer." And that was that.


End file.
